


Mornings After

by icarusforgotten



Series: spideypool secret santa 2013 [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, spideypool - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Hurt, M/M, Suicide, spideypool secret santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:05:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusforgotten/pseuds/icarusforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days are harder than others, and as much as Peter knows this, as much as he tries to keep his frustration at bay and remain compassionate and understanding towards Wade and his own twisted sense of self, he reaches a limit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mornings After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkavengerz (darkavenger)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/gifts).



Some days are harder than others, and as much as Peter knows this, as much as he tries to keep his frustration at bay and remain compassionate and understanding towards Wade and his own twisted sense of self, he reaches a limit. He tries to keep patient about the way Wade lets his spirit sink into the darkness of his inner musings, how he stares at nothing before him with eyes so hollowed they reflect all the abandoned bitterness of the universe. He stares without a word, so quiet that not even his breathing can be heard, and Peter can’t help but break under the weight of this silence.

He raises a hand, fingers tentatively brushing across the scar tissue of Wade’s head, and Peter tries to ignore the way his gut compresses in on itself as Wade flinches away.

“Come on, it’s Christmas morning,” he says quietly, reaching out to take Wade’s hand in his own.

But as soon as he manages to take hold, as soon as he tightens his grip in a way that is meant to be loving and reassuring, he feels Wade’s fingers slipping away, lifeless with their uncertainty as his hand hovers for a brief moment before curling into a fist and retreating beneath the covers.

And it breaks him, it hurts in ways that he never thought would be possible.

Because Wade had been so tender the night before. So open and receptive. They’d come home from patrol, costumes torn and stained with blood that had not yet dried, bodies painted with bruises and mud, stinking of sewage.

But hands caressed tired muscles, careful and wholesome with their intent. Wade lay beneath him, eyes wide and unblinking, breath hitching with every kiss, every brush of Peter’s lips across his flesh. And Wade felt so unbearably rigid as he continued to kiss along his body; he could feel fingers digging into his hips like a vice, strength bruising and uncomfortable, holding onto Peter as though he expected him to just suddenly take off without warning.

So Peter slowed everything down, taking Wade’s desperate hands into his, having to pry them away. He could swear that over the background noise of the blood pulsing through his brain he heard bone splintering as he pulled Wade’s hands away, a helpless whimper escaping his lips. And he was sure the sound would echo through his memories afterward, never failing to haunt him.

Wade’s anxiety kept building up until it levelled out, and the tension had nowhere to escape but through the wild jut of hips and fervent kisses, collapsing like the breath of a dying animal. He finally felt Wade’s body falling still – the breath against Peter’s neck regaining a content rhythm – long after their orgasm.

And when he was as relaxed as he could be Peter had taken him again, slow and gentle, breathing in his ear promises of safety as he made love to him throughout the night, quietly moaning words of endearment as he came, feeling Wade’s body shudder beneath him with climax.

Peter pressed a few more kisses to Wade’s chest and face, holding him close before the weight of his lids won out over the need to keep reassuring Wade. But before he fell asleep, he felt arms tightening around him desperately, trembling with their effort. He was already too far gone in his exhaustion to think anything of it.

And now, seeing Wade so uncertain and afraid, he realizes that he probably should have.

But it kind of occurs to Peter.

Why?

Why is Wade being so reclusive? Peter reassured him, held him through the night, _made love_ to him, the tender kind of love that he knows Wade craves for, that melts Peter’s bones when he can hear Wade whispering a quiet reprise of his name, of how much he needs him, how much he _loves_ him. The kind of love that he thought brought Wade closer to him.

But it just pushes him away.

And Peter finally realizes this. It finally dawns on him like the aftermath of a fatal crash.  

Every time Peter makes love to Wade, takes his fears and vulnerabilities and helps Wade mould a path through his darkness with soft caresses and gentle words, Wade always recoils the next morning.

“ _Why_?”

His voice is shaking and his throat clenches as he tries not to make the word come out any harsher than it already has.

Wade finally looks up at him, eyes far away. Peter sees the pupils dilated, how they’ve darkened. It squeezes at his heart.

“Why are you always trying to escape from me?”

Wade turns his head away, ignoring Peter as he picks in his ear, bringing his finger to his nose for a sniff before wiping it in their sheets with a disgusted frown.

Peter feels his frustration rising.

“What are you so afraid of Wade? Intimacy? Commitment? Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem like that when you cling to me, or when you say how much you need me.”

He snorts out a dry laugh.

“And you know what? How fucking ironic and hypocritical of you to say all those things to me when you can’t even accept it yourself that someone loves you, that someone might just see you in a better light! I can’t stand this! I can’t take any more morning of you pushing me away when I give myself so wholly to you!”

He shoots up off the bed, paces the room for a moment and spins to face Wade, mouth opening before he could catch his tongue.

“I’ve come to _hate_ waking up next to you on mornings after we’ve been together!”

Wade’s eyes lift to meet Peter’s, so unalive but sharp with a conviction that turns Peter’s stomach.

“So everything you said last night and all those other nights _was_ a lie, wasn’t it.”

It isn’t even a question.

And Peter finally snaps upon hearing the sad revelation in Wade’s voice, on hearing the smug bitter satisfaction of believing that his fears and worries held ground. Snaps at seeing Wade reaching for his gun from seemingly out of nowhere. And he feels betrayed.

 “I never said I didn’t love you – and don’t you _ever_ fucking think that! – I just hate the way you close off sometimes! The way you push me away like all my efforts to give you what you deserve mean _nothing_ to you!”

He paces their room, hands rolled so tightly into fists the colour drains from his knuckles. His frame shakes with all this tension – this _frustration_! – that’s crawling beneath his skin and twisting through his gut like a merciless swarm of insects, maddening and endless.

It’s enough to make him want to forget about convincing Wade to drop his gun and just let the bastard shoot his brains out again.

_Jesus fuck what is wrong with me?_

He recoils at the thought, the urge to vomit building low in his throat. Peter doubles over, gagging in loud, shaky gasps. His vision blurs, and he can barely make out the image of Wade dropping the gun to rush over.

A hand starts rubbing soothingly across his back, a tender voice in his ear, lulling his fears until his breathing evens and the stinging in his heart becomes a dull throb.

He shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath, trying not to break down at all the soothing words whispered quickly in his ear, hesitant yet rushed with their desperation.

The words eventually stop flowing, and even the hiccups that rack through Peter’s body in violent spurts come to an end, consuming the room in an ominous silence. Peter lifts his head to see Wade gazing at the gun across their room with longing. He muffles a curse and pushes Wade away, breaking free of his hold. He doesn’t even know why he should care, why he should let the asshole consume his mind like a reckless obsession.  

He rushes out of their room, down the stairs to reach for his coat. He needs some time out alone in the cold to clear his head.

But before he can make it out the door, before he can escape the madness of their home that’s eating away at him raw, he hears the violent echo of a gunshot.

Peter bites back a sob, slamming the door behind him. He rushes past the neighbours of his apartment floor who had come out to check on the noise before they can ask any questions.

The gunshot resounds through his head on instant repeat, tearing away at his will to breathe. And he knows he shouldn’t let it affect him so entirely like this. He _knows_.

It’s not like he hadn’t seen Wade kill himself before.

—

The first thing that Peter notices when he gets back to their apartment is the fresh scent of pine.

He takes his coat off, neatly hanging up his scarf, making sure his boots are lined evenly against the wall. Something warm and crackling catches his attention, and Peter can’t seem to remember when they had acquired a fire place. To be honest, he doesn’t remember acquiring any of the festive decorations that are scattered across their living room.

Peter rushes to their bedroom, practically kicking the door open.

The bed is clean with fresh sheets. The floor is swept. Thin strands of tinsel hang from the window sill.

At the sound of a toilet flushing Peter tenses.

He hears the swinging of rusty hinges and the heavy treading of careful feet. They come to a stop right behind him.

And he realizes that he can’t do this anymore. He can’t _pretend_ like this anymore.

“Wade, I – I can’t … ” and his breath is shaking too much for him to finish.

“I’m doing my best, Peter. I know you don’t believe me, but I am. And it’s hard. Because –”

“You love me. Shit, Wade, I _know_ that! You tell me this every time we fight! Every time you think I can’t hear you. And I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you can’t tell me to my face or the fact that you can only believe it yourself when you think I don’t know. _Because how is that being fair to me, Wade? How is that being fair to how_ I _feel about you!_ ” Peter wants to punch himself as he sees Wade recoiling from the volume of his voice.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing his nerves to calm. “I love you too and you know that. I _know_ you know that. But I can’t do this anymore, Wade. I can’t keep pretending that everything is going to work out because it’s not. I can’t keep pretending that it’s not causing a rift between us. I can’t be with you if you don’t trust me to be with you.”

Peter takes a step closer, but he stops right away. There is a look in Wade’s eyes that screams danger.

“I need you to trust me, Wade. I need you to let go of all this hatred, all this doubt and just _trust me_. Please.”

For a moment he thinks Wade will turn away and leave, but he comes rushing at Peter, tackling him down onto their bed. He can feel Wade’s body shaking, violent noises ripping from his throat as he weeps, clutching to Peter like he is his life.

And he is.

—

It’s late at night when Wade thinks that Peter is asleep that he wraps his body around his, kissing gently the back of his shoulder while he whispers his love against his skin.

The last thing he hears before he falls asleep to the feeling of warm hands caressing soothing patterns across his body is a broken apology for not having the perfect Christmas.

He doesn’t know how much more he can take.


End file.
